The Secret Keeper
by phantasm
Summary: Hermione has the information Draco needs. But when Hermione becomes what Draco truly needs, will he choose loyalty or love? A story of Hermione’s stay at the Malfoy Manor. Chapter Seven uploaded!
1. The Overture

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is property of JK Rowling!  I'm sure everybody is aware of this by now.  : )  

Spoilers: All FIVE books!  I'm not sure if anything is given away in this chapter, but please do not read as a precaution!

The Secret Keeper

by phantasm

My only love springs from my only hate…. – William Shakespeare

Chapter 1: The Overture

Spanning from approximately the time she turned two (when she graduated from diminutive chapter books to her first full-length novel), to present time, Hermione's iron-clad philosophy with books had not yet failed her.  

By rereading books, whether a leisurely novel or a Hogwarts text book, there was more to gain each time.  More insights to earn, new vocabulary to circle neatly with her quill and memorize- both worthwhile goals.  

(The only exceptions to her philosophy were the Divination textbook and the sappy romance novels she saw while wandering through the aisles at the Muggle grocery store, but she had never bothered to read either of those in the first place.)  

So, in all respects, her philosophy worked.

Until now, of course.

Propping a cheek heavily onto her palm to prevent herself from dozing off and smacking her face on the table, she reread another passage of 1001 Organic Magical Remedies by Phyllida Spore drearily, half-wishing to pick it up and throw it against a wall.  

She shook her head immediately, as if the physical action could shake the rogue thought from her mind, ashamed at herself for even _thinking _of such a desecrating act.  

Before her fourth year, Hermione had managed to read each text six times over before the start of fall term, her personal best until this point.  Fifth year summer reading was somewhat stilted by Order of the Phoenix happenings, sixth was a measly four times (due to lengthy visits with Krum in Bulgaria), but this summer- she had redeemed herself for her two year shortcomings.  

She had successfully read four of her texts from cover to cover (while memorizing three) a total of nine times _each_, had practiced every question in _Numerology and Gramatica: For the Advanced Learner_ seven times over, and now, was well on her way to memorizing her Herbology book.  

Unfortuneately, her success was somewhat incomparable, as the circumstances were different.  For the first time since she was four, her family had not taken their annual summer vacation to the Virgin Islands, leaving her slightly paler than usual (she didn't tan well anyway), and with even more time to do either absolutely nothing _or_ read (while her parents were busy cruising on the shores of Costa Rica for their 20th anniversary).   

But the more important factor- Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, although it was already September 7th, had not reopened its doors for its students.  

In fact, Hermione had no such received a single letter from the school (or from Harry and Ron, for that matter) and had completely stopped receiving her _Daily Prophet_ and complimentary copies of _The Quibbler _from Luna's father.  Not a single owl had flown through her window to deliver a message since a week after her sixth year ended.  

Stuck in her Muggle home, she lost all contact with the Wizardring world, and now that her parents were off on vacation ('And since I have no Muggle friends,' she sniffed), she was utterly, absolutely alone.  She suddenly felt very, very sorry she never forced her parents to allow her to visit Harry while he was stuck at the Dursley residence.  Well, at least _she_ didn't have a Dudley.  

A single hoot rang through the otherwise silent night, and Hermione's eyes shot, by instinct, to the window.  The sound diminished as quickly as it had appeared.  Hermione cast her eyes back down to her Herbology textbook, berating herself for allowing herself high hopes once more.

Suddenly, a miniature ocher owl burst through her window, wings in tatters, broken feathers swirling into the room.  In a desperate flight, it made its way towards her, with a piece of parchment dangling from its claws.  

It was only feet away.  Hermione quickly  jumped to her feet and reached with her arms outstretched, leaning precariously over the mahogany desk to press her fingertips to the letter.  She unfolded it quickly, eager to have finally received contact with the Wizardring world.  Unfamiliar handwriting was scrawled hurriedly in blue ink over the white parchment.  

 _They're coming_.  _Leave NOW and be careful.  We'll find you._

A gust of freezing wind brushed against the nape of her neck and she immediately, dreadingly knew it was too late.  The owl was too late.  _They_ were already here.    

A splatter of green light momentarily blinded her vision and in the succeeding millisecond, the owl suddenly veered away and fell hard head first to the floor in a reckless kamikaze dive.  A gruesome crack accompanied the rush of feathers that flew into the air.

As if on cue, the lights flickered dangerously and soon after, completely blacked out, snuffed as easily as a candle's weak flame.  

A frigid, impermeable silence reigned.  A gnawing cold numbed all sense of feeling so that she could no longer feel the violent chattering of her teeth, but only hear it pulsating in her eardrums.     ****

Trembling with fear and frost, Hermione extended her arm and grabbed wand that rested on her desk to face the intruder.  She whirled around while opening her mouth to cry, "_Lumos"!_ into the darkness-

And instantaneously found that it was unnecessary.  

A Death Eater stood erect before her, emanating an unearthly green glow from its entire cloaked body.  Under its dark shroud, all that could be seen was a pale arm bathed in green light, and with a wand held tight in hand, ready for use at any moment.  

Raising her wand to utter a curse was futile.  The enemy was not alone.  Behind the first stood a group four more Death Eaters, all hidden by the same black cover, blinding her with the same sinister light. 

And more dangerously, even more horrifying, were the Dementors that flanked restlessly behind, always eager to throw back their veils for a kiss. They writhed and danced repulsively beneath their shrouds, the every move of their skeletal figures outlined by the harsh dark satin.  The sucking breath of the Dementors left clouds of frost suspended in the air, and Hermione shuddered uncontrollably.       

The cold seeped through her skin, bit into bone, burrowed into her flesh.  A horrible, sucking sensation tore her consciousness to pieces, plaguing her with a volatile mixture of ice and death, leaving her half-delirious.  

Her knees collapsed from beneath her, and she fell hard to the floor, her body colliding bruisingly against the wood.  The warm blood that trickled from her lips down her cheek immediately froze into a river of crimson ice.  

Hermione extended her arm to grab her arm that had fallen away, but the Dementors drew dangerously close, sucking all the remaining warmth as they closed in, causing her to recoil her arm in freezing pain.   

Frozen bones suddenly wrapped around her throat, dragging her frigid body closer to a veiled skull for the ceremonial kiss.  Her arms and legs fought uselessly, feeling heavy as lead.  

She closed her eyes, ready for multiple shouts of _Aveda Kedavra_ to come and blend with a dozen chilly kisses, killing her instantly.  She could already feel their rancid breath clouding against her face, a mist of rotting decay turning her face to ice.    

The other Dementors swirled turbulently around her, celebrating her inifinite matrimony with death, the swish and rasp of black satin the only sound accompanying her to sleep.    

Darkness closed in, interrupted only by the scent of death and the sound of agitated rustling.  Lost in sight, scent, and sound, her mind was no longer swimming with fear- she was past that.  She allowed herself to drown deeper… deeper into the sanctified nothingness free of cold and pain.  

And then only the darkness remained.   

***

"So _what_ exactly was the point of keeping her alive?" 

As per usual, Pansy's question went unanswered, and all activity continued despite her lingering speech.  It was a habit to them, no- maybe more of a ritual at this point- to ignore her, to deny her existence.  The purpose of her voice was to spiral away and evaporate into the night air.

For the rest of them, they managed to find their own purposes.  

Crabbe and Goyle busied themselves by hovering over Hermione's sprawled form while exchanging unintelligible grunts and short nods, both failed attempts to appear useful.  In the well-lit center of the room, Blaise straightened her cloak-flattened hair lovingly in front of her levitating mirror, patting thick ebony tresses back into their appropriate place.  

And Draco stood dismissing the group of Dementors that hovered beside him.  Instantly, they swirled around him, swishing their long robes, and with a loud _snap,_ they Disapparated.  The room became perceptibly warmer. 

Having not done so already, Draco grabbed his dark hood and roughly tugged it away from his face, allowing the blond locks of hair that had been roughly shoved back to now fan across his forehead.  

Watching him perform even this simple action caused a flush of heat to rise into Pansy's cheeks.

She followed suit, shifting the overcastting cloth away from her face, allowing her now reddened face to cool.  

She bled with passion for him.  

She was his victim and follower in every way, deceived and chained to him indefinitely by his paradoxical beauty.  His gracefully curved nose and shock of white-blond hair gave a him the adorable qualities of a child.  But his sculpted cheekbones and smooth jaw line, under the hardened glare all worked together to create the hardened image of what he truly was- a man.  No, not only a man… he was better.  A Death Eater.   

And the reason _she_ was a Death Eater.  

Oblivious to her admiration, he crouched low over a fallen owl, found the dropped parchment, scanned the words scribbled across the surface, and wordlessly stuffed it into his sleeve.  

A harsh whisper snapped Pansy out of her reverie.  

"You could really make it less obvious, you know," sneered Blaise, arms crossed beneath her robes, now apparently satisfied with her perfectly placed dark tresses.  "You gawking at Draco every spare moment is really quite _revolting_."

"Less disgusting than your narcissism, I assure you," retorted Pansy, just as maliciously, although she could not prevent the full-scale blush from returning to her cheeks.  

"If you were me, you'd understand.  Hell, if you were half as beautiful, half as smart, half as talented- you'd understand."

An shrill ring of laughter completed her statement.  Having heard all of this before, Pansy merely turned away.

"You should really leave him for me," Blaise continued mercilessly, hissing to Pansy's turned back. "He's giving more attention to that Mudblood right now than he ever will to you."

She flounced off, sending perfectly curled black hair bouncing behind her, a satisfied smile showing rows of gleaming white teeth,.  Pansy cast a dreadful glance over at Draco, a subconscious confirmation of Blaise's scalding remarks.   

Blaise was right, to a small degree.  He had joined Crabbe and Goyle in their crowd around the sleep-induced Hermione, who was sprawled against the wooden floor at all angles.  Draco crouched above her, in a manner as with the owl, but at the same time, quite different.  He examined her less calculatingly, at a distance much closer, and touched her less objectively.  Pansy's heart gave a cruel jolt.  

"We should leave before anyone comes to investigate," Pansy said as she rushed over to him, breathlessly eager to interrupt, face still glowing a violent shade of scarlet.

"With the condition the Ministry's in right now, they won't discover this for hours," replied Blaise, wallowing in Pansy's discomfort.

Pansy blanched.

"No, Pansy's right.  We should take as many precautions as possible," Draco intermitted, rising from his hovering squat.  Goyle, do take Hermione when you disapparate."  

"She's _coming with us_?"

Draco cast Pansy a weary glance.  

"You want to leave her so her parents can find her and the whole Muggle community knows about this by nightfall?"

Five cracks rang out in the still air, and soon thereafter, the silence reclaimed its reign over the Muggle neighborhood.  

***

The most blissfully restful sleep that Hermione experienced since the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament would have gone uninterrupted for hours if an object had not suddenly latched on to her calf.  

Opening her eyes groggily to meet this interruption, she gave a surprised yelp and quickly curled her legs back towards her chest when she saw exactly what had grabbed hold of her leg- a severed hand.  

She shook it off frantically, beside herself in fear, until the graying fingers loosened their hold, and the bones ceased to tear into her flesh.  It scuttled away, crablike, loose bags of skin sagging heavily over the thin, bony frame.

"You are to treat my ancestor with respect," called a far-away voice, reverberating against the dark walls of her confinement.  Footsteps echoed, growing ever louder, approaching swiftly.                

"_Ancestor_…?"

"Great Grandfather Carnificus Nigellus Malfoy, son of Phineas Nigellus, responsible for renovation of this most sacred Malfoy Manor by using the Imperius Curse on thousands of Muggles."

By this point, the source of the voice had entered the dim light before her, and Hermione (although still thoroughly disgusted from being groped by a decapitated centuries-old hand), froze.  Draco Malfoy stood before her, leering down his nose at her cowering form, his amused look cleary visible even in the darkness.

"Now _this_ is the way you should have been ever since we first met, Mudblood," he sneered, moving in closer to her curled position on the gray stone floor with his wand in hand.  "On your knees."

 Immediately, she firmly twisted her legs beneath her and stared up at her captor, obedient as a house elf. 

Realization hit her as hard- Draco could use the Imperius curse.  She was at his complete and utter mercy, to do as he pleased when he pleased.  

"But that's not enough, is it?  Not after all you've put me through," he continued, a brilliant smile gleaming on his face.  "_Bow to me_."

 A mere flick of his wand, and Hermione's arms rigidly shot in front of her, her back curved towards the floor, and her face was so close to the stone floor that she could taste the dirt upon its grimy surface. 

Regaining control over her limbs, she rose and defiantly returned his frigid stare unflinchingly.  Draco was now close enough to her that she could feel his warm breath against her frozen cheeks, count every speckle of blue in his eyes.  His lips bent into a cruel smile as he reached out a hand to twist a russet tendril of hair around his finger.  For a second, he allowed himself to admire the glow of her moon-white skin, her warm hazel eyes, and delicate pink lips that were quivering with fear.  Her hair that had once reminded him of her bushy unkempt cat (Crookshanks, was it?) now tamed to frame her oval face with long waves flowing over her shoulder down her back.         

"It's a shame that these looks were wasted on a Muggle-born," he whispered silkily into her ear, lost in his thoughts.  Immediately, her face burned with indignation.  

"No girl, Muggle-born or not, would _ever_ waste their time on a git like you," she spat viciously.  

"Plenty of your fellow Gryffindors would disagree."

"Only for your money."

"You should watch your mouth with me, Mudblood."

"What are you to do if I don't?"

A contemplative silence preceded, but their eye contact never once faltered.  

"According to your beloved coward Dumbledore, there are things far, far worse than death, Granger."

"And being with you is one."  

He abruptly raised his hand, and Hermione braced herself for a heavy blow to crush her jaw.  It never came.  

He held her jaw between his fingers, surprisingly delicate, at the same time causing the breath chill in her throat, a warm fluster to rise into her head.  The overwhelming paradox of feeling left a vapid hole in all train of thought.  

"Being with me is a pleasure," he said softly into her face, "compared to the misery you will come to know." 

He released her, and immediately, her legs were rubber beneath her.  She felt herself falling back down to the hard floor, mind spiraling back into oblivion. 

**Authors note**: I knew a revision was necessary.  GAH!  Hopefully, this is a **little** less crappy than the original? : )


	2. Dreams and Hypocrisy

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is property of JK Rowling!  I'm sure everybody is aware of this by now.  : )  

Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers from all FIVE books.  Some swearing, too, so the weak at heart must leave.    

The Secret Keeper

by fantasm

Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war… – James Baldwin

Chapter 2: Dreams and Hypocrisy 

Perfectly pinned black hair, full cerise painted lips, precise kohl-lined eyes- 

Blaise Zambini quickly appraised herself in her mirror and smiled.  Immediately, pearly rows of even teeth greeted her on the mirrors surface.  She had to admit, she was _too_ beautiful.  It was almost… disgusting.  _Almost_, she reminded herself with another Miss America smile. 

And beauty deserves beauty, so why did she not yet have Draco?  

She meant "have" in the most possessive way; not meaning a couple of midnight, alcohol induced snogs; not a careless one night stand, and definitely not to share with Pansy.  If she were less lovely, less perfect; she would have accepted what she had gotten from him so far- passionate kisses in his bedroom, trinkets and other small gifts sent to her room, and drunken nights under his covers- the things half of the girls at school had gotten from him, as well.  

But that's not what Blaise aimed for.  Her mother had married rich at sixteen, and her unfortunate daughter was seventeen without even hints at a ring?  Pity.  

And that was precisely why Blaise dressed in her most romantic summer dress; doused in perfume, and was traipsing up the marble steps to Draco's room, full white skirt billowing behind her.  She was going to make him love her.  She was going to make it so he was unable to breathe, unable to live unless she was there beside him.

She found him pacing restlessly across his carpet.  He didn't even notice her entry.  

"You look tense," Blaise remarked, sultrily as her voice could manage, as he turned to meet her voice.  "Maybe you should take a break."

"Voldemort hasn't contacted us yet," he said suddenly, worry furrowing his brow. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do with the Mudblood.  His only instructions were to bring her-"

"Shh…." She delicately brought a finger to his lips and stared up at him pleadingly through the fringe of her dark lashes.

His brow unfurrowed, and a sly grin replaced it.  

"You were here only yesterday," he reminded her with a gently raised eyebrow.  "Already back for more?"

She answered him with a brutal kiss, already beginning to push him towards his bed.  She shoved him onto it, savagely, and she joined him, crushing him with a thousand bruising kisses.  His strong arms wrapped across her waist, pulling her closer.  

Running her hands through his silky hair, she allowed herself to drown into the clear, never-ending blue depths of his eyes.   

And she could only think-

_Please let him love me_.

***

By the time the light of the pale moon washed through the windows of the Malfoy Manor, its master was already lost in sleep.

Only at morning was this bare sleep blemished with a dream.  

In an ephemeral mixture of fiction and reality, as it rose into his mind.   

There was a lake, foam streaming madly towards the surface, and his dream-ears were filled with sound.  Music… discordant music… no, a muffled terrible voice surrounded him, booming from all sides.  And dumbly, his eyes could focus only on the surface of water.  

A face broke the surface of the murky water, but not human face.  The skin was a slick pale green, a crown of algae lopsidedly scattered across the forest of emerald hair.  Its eyes were a dead black, emotionless beady fish eyes, and from the distance, they focused straight at him.  Its hideous, scar-like mouth suddenly opened and began to move.  

Its unearthly voice floated across the water's murky surface.  It was trying to tell him something, it's eyes were shining wide and bright, and its hands were waving desperately in the air, as if beckoning him closer.      

The creature continued to wail, frantically screeching more incomprehensible words.  Draco fought to move in, but his body was plastered into place.  He fought against this immobility, waving his arms frantically, and scratching his nails through the mystic fog like talons.  

And suddenly, his surroundings began to effervesce.  The dark water, the looming trees, and blue sky above him- all bubbled away from him, and became his ceiling.  

And he was free from his dream, although he had never wanted to be.  He wanted to know what it was saying.  The setting was unnervingly familiar, but he just couldn't remember…  If only he could see it once more-

Draco knew that horrible things happened to people that followed their dreams.  His nemesis, Harry Potter, had learned that the hard way just over a year ago.  When he was younger, his father would tell him bed time stories of pathetic Muggles who dreamt of stout green men leading them to a path beyond the rainbow- and their deaths by falling over cliffs and running into thorny bushes because they never looked ahead.  Just up.  So Draco felt thoroughly guilty about even considering to take this dream further.

He untangled himself from the mess of green and silver sheets around him, washed up, and walked to the kitchens.  

"Young Master," a leathery voice called far beneath him as he entered through the double doors, "Young Master should know what your foolish friends have done."  

The leathery voice in question came from an equally leathery-skinned House Elf.  Its dirty potato sack was all that covered the decrepit, hunched creature, and tufts of white hair poked out of his plate-like ears.  His crinkled face was groveling against the floor with shame, and its spindly legs and distorted feet shuffled uncomfortably before him.     

"Kreacher tried to stop them, yes he did," it mumbled rapidly, a quick attempt at redemption.  "But they wouldn't listen to Kreacher, no, those stupid big idiots, they didn't want to listen to Kreacher."    

"What did they do, Kreacher?" Draco asked, now suddenly alarmed.  The hunched House Elf shuddered dramatically.

"Young Master must stop his foolish friends," continued Kreacher angrily, as his rickety limbs trembled with rage.  "They've allowed that Muggle filth into the most sacred Manor, yes they did, and she's sitting at the patio instead of locked in that cellar ROTTING LIKE MUGGLE FILTH SHOULD."

But Draco had already heard enough.  He crossed the kitchens, temper at boiling point, and he thrust open the wooden double doors that led to the patio.  

And sure enough, there she sat, sitting rigid as china, surrounded by Pansy, Blaise, and Crabbe.  

Blaise's eyes lit up immediately upon the mere sight of Draco, although his face was scarlet with fury and his cold blue eyes were even more forboding than usual.

"Look what we've done to her!" she cried joyfully, as if presenting a newborn child.  "Isn't it wonderful what the Imperius curse could do?"

Sure enough, they _had_ done something to her, she was propped lazily on a chair, head lolling about like a rag-doll.  Her eyes stared vacantly ahead of her, maroon bruises contrasting sharply against her fair skin, evidence of brutality that Draco had not committed.    

"Who knew we'd have our Head Girl as our personal slave," Pansy said, in awe of herself, blue eyes wide with delight.  

"That's not even half of it," Blaise exclaimed, thrilled at what she'd made out of the top of their class.  "Look at what else we can do."

Draco's anger was hardly appeased.  

"What do you think the Death Eaters should do about Mudbloods and Muggles, Head Gryffindor," asked Pansy, clearly amused.

"The Death Eaters should wipe Mudbloods and Muggles clean from the earth that the most consecrated Lord Voldemort inhabits," Hermione replied, expressionless, as if reading lines from a textbook, "Their existence- my existence- is a disgrace to the pure world the Lord Voldemort will create." 

"And Mudblood," cooed Blaise in her characteristically feathery voice, "What do you think of _Harry Potter_?"

A light sparkled in Hermione's otherwise lifeless eyes, but it was quickly diminished.  Her lips opened and closed wordlessly, a silent struggle taking place within her, but eventually the curse rose as the victor.

"Harry Potter is scum," she intoned, in a disconnected voice.  "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will reign supreme and in that golden era, The Boy Who Lived will meet his rightful end.  Dreaded half-blood, pathetic product of Muggle-"  

At this point, Kreacher, who had been lurking just beyond the doors pressing his flat ears to mahogany, let out a wheezing shriek of laughter.       

This interruption seemed awaken something within Hermione, however, and she stopped mid-sentence and with a contemplative thought, continued on.

"-Harry Potter will triumph over Voldemort, and all those allied with him," she continued, voice rapidly gaining strength, words tumbling faster out of her cerise lips. "Harry Potter will destroy the Death Eaters.  Harry Potter will save me.  Harry Potter-"

"Shut up, dumb girl!" screeched Pansy, who had risen from her seat to land a stinging slap across Hermione's face.  A red mark glowed feverishly on her cheek in its wake.  This seemed to subdue Hermione back into her servitude.

But to watch this scene, was almost as if Draco were watching an old movie flickering painfully before him, a single frame dragging by per second.  He saw the slap extended through time, Hermione's crumble into a complacent, glass-eyed, helpless little child, and then the mark burning on her white flesh- 

-and in that exaggerated moment, something snapped within him.      

It might have been something about the way he had been standing there for a full five minutes without so much hearing a "Ferret Boy" or some nasty comment about his mother.  The way her eyes were passed right through him rather than boring hatefully into him; glassy, instead of filled with revulsion as they should have been.  

Or perhaps it was because this scene was all too familiar, a sickening déjà vu, from when he would watch his ever-obedient, ever-proper mother cowering obediently before his father, angry red marks glowing on her face, her arms, her back-  

He was so completely disgusted by this, by _her_, and at the same time utterly disturbed.   

There was the gnawing desire to hurt her, to grab her powdered face between his hands and scream at her until his throat was raw, because his confusion, in effect, was all her fault.  Why the hell couldn't she stand up to the damn Imperius curse?  The brightest witch of their time, so susceptible to a curse that in an instant stripped her of all her strength and bravery- the qualities that made her the disgusting Mudblood Potter-trio member that she was for the past six years.    

But to see her without these qualities, was infinitely more vile.  

"Get out," he seethed quietly, at first, as his anger boiled to the surface.

And then it exploded.

"Get out, _get out, GET OUT_."

He shouted at them, half out of his mind, having no idea what he was doing.  He shoved the dainty chairs away from him in all directions- even their intricate wire designs and adorable cushions disgusted him now- finding a sickening release when he heard them clanging on the wooden deck.  Pansy, Crabbe, and Blaise scattered, jumping out from their chairs and running for the doors.  Only Blaise stopped to give him a questioning glance before she spun out of the room, robes trailing dramatically behind her.  

Porcelain and glass fell from the high table and shattered unceremoniously onto the floor.    

And he was left, alone, with the reason for his fury.  

The noise served to stir Hermione back into reality, and she slowly regained control.  Her mind had been trapped within her body, a strange voice shouting instructions, but her resistance was too weak.  Up until only moments ago, she could feel a sensation only describable as a complete nothingness- a void of thought, action, existence.  And then, that's when the voices had started, increasing in frequency and tempo, suddenly angry voices, but muffled.  A tremolo of sounds, incomprehensible but growing clearer-  

And that's when she heard _his_ voice.  

She blinked, and suddenly, everything was suddenly clear.  Her eyes moved from the glass crunching beneath his soles, to the overturned chairs, and the tea spilled over the wooden floor.  

And then she finally saw his face, which was glowering with anger.  

"I can honestly say, Granger," Draco started, in a booming voice, "that in the six years I had to deal with your shit, I've never seen you more repulsive than you were just now.  And you being a pathetic Mudblood to begin with, I mean that in the worst possible way."

"Seeing that I had no idea what I was doing, and _still_ have no idea what the hell I did, it takes a genuine jackass to say that."

"But that's _exactly_ what made you so pathetic.  You have absolutely no clue what you just did.  You had _no- fucking- control- at- all_."  

"And I suppose _you_ would know how it feels to be under the Imperius Curse, you spoiled prat?" she spat bitterly, tenderly placing her fingers against the red skin of her cheek.

 From the look on his face, Hermione immediately knew that was the wrong thing to say.

"_I_ know better than anyone what the Imperius Curse feels like, Granger.  And it _can_ be resisted, unless you want it to happen."

Before she could even blink, she saw him produce his wand from the folds of his robes and heard the words _Imperio_ escape from his lips, and she felt the now-too-familiar bodily lock down take place again.  Her mind was floating, somewhere far away, watching herself and Draco as if it were a third person in the room.  

Her body was paralyzed.  

He moved closer, too close, dangerously close- she could even feel his breath across her face.  She had expected it to be cold, cold like his eyes, cold like the Dementor's chilly excitement, but it was a warm breeze against her face.    

She could see only his lips, the world around them was blotted away, and she felt a warm hand against the skin of her cheek, and one nestling in her hair.

_Give in_.  _Give in_.

A voice was screaming clearly in her ear, shouting orders, and she couldn't understand why.  There was nothing in the world she wanted to do more than this…

But then why did it feel so wrong?

She could count every individual eyelash, see every misplaced lock of hair sweeping across his face…

She closed her eyes.

_Kiss him_.

Her lips parted.

And another voice interrupted the first-

_Remember who this is.  _

And that new voice resonated more loudly, until her mind was shot back into her own body, and perfectly in control.  

But there was still nothing she wanted more than to-

_Remember Harry.  _

She pushed him from her with all of her might and he stumbled back into the clutter of chairs and crunching glass.

Regaining his balance, he was suddenly very much as confused as before, and ashamed.  An overwhelming urge to touch her had filled his judgment, and his mind and body felt impure.  He had wanted _her_, a Mudblood.  Harry Potter's devoted follower.

In that horrible, deafening silence, there was nothing that could be said to break it.  They stared at each other, almost unbelievingly, both dying for breath.  

And he walked away, leaving Hermione to stare open-mouthed at nothing, all alone.  

He would not allow her the satisfaction of believing a Malfoy would want filth like her.  

But he did.

And that scared him more his what his father would say when he came back with Voldemort, the torture he would endure under hours of the Cruiciatius curse… more than anything.

***

**Chapter Completed**- 7.3.03

**Thanks You**:

-To everyone who actually read through the last chapter and this chapter.  My writing is boring, and I am impressed you sat all the way through it!

-For all my super-nice reviewers.  I can't thank you enough.

-To the wonderful person who e-mailed me and completely brightened my morning.  Thanks again!

-To Flexi Lexi: for fixing my stupid mistake.  _Never feel bad about pointing out my mistakes_!  They're my fault, and I'm happy you pointed it out so I could fix it.

Please:

-Remember to review!  Reviews make me (and all other writers) happy!

-Tell me about corrections I need to make.  Or about why my writing sucks so I can get better.


	3. Illusions and Delusions

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is property of JK Rowling!  I'm sure everybody is aware of this by now.  : )  

Spoilers: All FIVE books!  Profanity warning.  

The Secret Keeper

by fantasm

Love can sometimes be magic. But magic can sometimes...just be an illusion."-- Javan

Chapter 3: Illusions and Delusions __

In a flurry of green ash, a pallid face appeared in the embers of the living room fireplace  

"_Bring me the boy_," its voice rumbled, causing the whole room to tremble.  The elderly House Elf, who had been polishing the silver mantelpiece above the fires fell backwards in fright.  

"Oh, Master," it groveled, face bowed the floor, "Kreacher lives to serve the Dark Lord."

And it spun around and ran off to find the boy.

***

The Dark Mark on Draco's forearm suddenly burned as if it were being traced with a acid-dipped, razor sharp quill.    

A year ago, he would have cringed in pain, reeling around the room while gripping his the mark under a trembling hand, absolutely beside himself with the excruciating pain

But this occurred every time Lord Voldemort was angry or feeling particularly prideful.  So this occurred very often.

He ordered a House Elf to carry away his breakfast, suddenly having lost his appetite seeing the Dark Mark glowing furiously on his arm.  He had numbed himself to the pain of having the brand, but the angry contrast of his pale skin to the ugly black mark on his arm still unnerved him.  He preferred never to look at it.

Dishes crashed to the floor behind him.  Turning, he saw Kreacher, tripping over his own large feet in order to get to him as fast as he could, his humped back stooped over even more than usual.  He had crashed into the House Elf that had been carrying his dishes to be washed, and they both were on the floor, long limbs tangled in a mess.  

"Master," he panted, "the Dark Lord waits for your presence in the living room."

The House Elf pointed a crooked finger in the direction of the living room.

"I know where its is," Draco replied crossly, hungry, but now unable to finish a decent meal, "This is _my_ home."  

"Son of most beautiful, righteous Narcissa Black," whimpered the sagging House Elf, "Old Kreacher is so unworthy to serve you."

And as Draco strode out of the kitchens to the living room, he could hear Kreacher punishing himself with a iron pan.

***

"Seven long months your parents and I have searched, but still no Potter," the face seethed, tendrils of flame shooting out and caressing to caress its pale cheeks. 

Voldemort's red eyes flashed dangerously in the fire, and the wall of flame danced even more frantically.    

"That is unfortunate to hear, Master."

"We have searched in every home, in every street, every _store_, every conceivable place for Potter and Dumbledore- and because I am the Dark Lord and my intelligence far surpasses that of your Headmaster, I now how to find them."

The dark imprint on his forearm burned even hotter.

"Of course, Master."

"Have you ever heard of the term "Secret Keeper," before, Draco?"

"Vaguely, sir," he replied, wondering where this conversation was leading to.

"The Secret Keeper represents a difficulty because the secret can only be given willingly.  Such was the case with Potter's wretched father, Wormtail sought me and gave me the information voluntarily.  However- that was a special case.  This time will be very different.  The Keeper will _not_ willingly give us Potter's position."

He scowled as he said these words, and the flames around him rose frantically with his anger.

"If there was anything I could do to ease this terrible burden upon you," Draco began earnestly, knowing at the same time there was nothing he could do.

Voldemort's scowl suddenly transformed into a pleased grin.  

"In fact, there _is_ something you can do."

"The Mudblood.  She must be the Secret Keeper.  This magic is so ancient, so complex, that even the Imperius Curse can not extract Potter's location from her.  The Cruciatius curse may drive her mad and then the information will be lost to us forever."

"Then how do we-"

"How do _we?  _No, this is _your_ mission.  Make her want to give you this information."  

"H-how can I do this, Master," he sputtered, all the while knowing full well what was expected of him.  

The Dark Lord seemed to ignore him altogether.   

"Narcissa was the top debutante of her time.  Exceedingly beautiful, charming, from one of the purest Wizarding lines in Britain.  But who did she unquestionably choose to marry in the end?"       

Voldemort smiled at his rhetorical question.  And with a sly voice, almost as an afterthought, he added-  

"You see, Draco, the Malfoys have _always_ been good with women…"

***

Later that evening, Hermione lay among the rats in the cellar on the stone floor once again, after her brief moment of freedom (if you call being under the Imperius curse _freedom_, she added bitterly).  She counted the droplets of water that fell through the leak in the ceiling as the met the floor with a _plop _as if it were the most important occurrence in the world_._  It was best to stay this way, mind concentrating on the most trivial of things- because that way, there was no room for things that actually bothered the crap out of her.

Like how Harry wasn't crashing through the ancient windows of the Malfoy Manor in attempts to save her (they were sealed and heavily jinxed, of course, but still, why wasn't he?).  Or why she had no idea what day it was, or what time of day it was, because the damn cellar was the same pitch-black whether it were morning or night.  

Or how she actually, for that ghastly split second after she overcame the curse, still wanted to kiss the Mudblood-hater.

Even recalling that shameful memory made her want to cast the Cruciatius spell on herself for a nice full minute so that she would have the appropriate punishment for this unforgivable sin.  Unforgivable curse for an unforgivable sin.  It made sense in her mind.    __

But since she was without a wand, the best thing to do was to completely forget about the incident until she had a wand in her possession.  Then she could cast the Cruciatius spell until she was properly insane, and would never have to recall the moment _ever.  _

And until then, the best course of action was to count the water droplets.  The sound of metal sliding against metal vaguely interrupted the plight of the raindrop-counting.   

A single beam of light first bombarded Hermione's vision, and it slowly fanned out to illuminate the whole room.  She had a visitor.  She turned her face to blinding door, and saw a pair of fine leather shoes.  Definitely not Harry's.

And her eyes trailed upwards to the finely spun white robes, shining with silver trim, and to the face-

Draco.

She abruptly rolled on her back so that she was facing the wall, playing dead, hoping that she would blend into the ground and he wouldn't notice her.

"I've arranged for new living arrangements," he said, strangely cordial, a little too nicely for Hermione's liking.

She would have preferred it if he snarled at her as per usual, and said something along the lines of, "Rot in Voldemort's clutches, Mudblood," as he slammed the door on her once again, cackling madly like the Wicked Witch from Snow White.  She giggled despite herself.  

Draco disdainfully stared down at the unkempt savage by his feet and wondered what sort of honors he would received from the Dark Lord when this impossible task was accomplished.  Not only was she a Mudblood, she was now also a complete _insane_ Mudblood, laughing to herself in the darkness.

"You probably need something to eat, first," he said to her, although he wasn't quite sure that she could hear him.  Or if she even knew he was there.  A combination of hunger, sleeplessness, and the Imperius Curse had probably affected her mind.  

She continued to lay, immobile, back still facing him.  Sighing heavily, bent down, hoisted her over his shoulder, and carried her step after step until they were complete out of the darkness of the cold cellar and together, stepped into the light.

***

"Checkmate."

Blaise gave a very unladylike shriek of laughter, and applauded herself merrily.  Pansy was just no competition, even in something as trivial as chess.  Pansy merely cast her eyes down at her destroyed chess pieces, wondering why she allowed herself to play against Blaise in the first place.

And also wondering why Blaise had been one of her best friends for the past six years was another question she had in mind, but she didn't dare dwell on it.  Because if she wasn't there, who did she have?  Draco?

 If only she did.

"Oh, you're not even going to congratulate me?" Blaise asked in a mock-disappointed tone, finely shaped eyebrows drooping slightly as the corners of her painted lips tugged down into a pout.

"You congratulate yourself enough for the both of us," Pansy muttered, sweeping the chess pieces back into their starting positions with a flick of her wand.  

"You know, you're an _extremely_ poor loser."

 Pansy remained silent.

"I mean, you should be used to it by now, right?"

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Well, you know… like with grades and stuff, and… of course, you're not all _too_ popular with the boys… especially Draco.  You've been all caught up on him for the majority of your life, and here you are at his house and no action between the two of you?  That's… really sad, I'm sorry, Pansy…"

She trailed off, giving Pansy a pitying look, as if she were suddenly the most sympathetic person in the world.  That was another thing she added to her checklist- Most Beautiful Girl in the World, Richest Girl in Britain, and now- Mother Theresa.  She smiled inwardly, wondering if there was anything she _couldn't_ do.  

"And I suppose _you're _having better luck with him?" asked Pansy, fuming dangerously.

Blaise immediately blushed, pale cheek flushing with a becoming pink, and she curled a tendril of dark hair around her finger mock-nervously.

"Well, I don't want to _brag _or anything, but…"

She giggled, extremely pleased with both herself and the scandalized look on Pansy's face.  

"You're…. You're a fucking liar," Pansy screeched, although she didn't quite believe what she was saying.  It was very characteristic of Draco to do this.

Blaise lost her giggly demeanor immediately.  

"Oh?  Just because you can't take defeat-"

Pansy abruptly rose from her chair, causing it to topple over behind her, and the chess board to go crashing against the floor.

"Draco will _never_ be yours," she said resolutely, staring at the shocked expression on Blaise's face with an overwhelming surge of hate.  "And I'm going to make sure of that."

***

Later that night, the dream had returned.

Draco was thrust back to the lake, but at the same time, was painfully far from it.  The creature remained, moaning and wailing horrible from the middle of the lake.

But he had seen this all before, nights ago, and he wanted to see more.  And he did.  Within its long, spindly fingers, something was moving; wriggling desperately to break free.  And he had never heard the moans, the unnerving wails so clearly as he did at this moment-

"_Yoran swa_!" it seemed to cry, its voice still garbled in the dream-mist, as if its voice were traveling through water.  _"Yoran swa!"_

And right when he felt he was getting _so close_, the dream escaped him again, erupting into the same nothingness, leaving him as confused and unfulfilled as before.  

***

Author's Note:

I wrestled in some plot  : )

Thanks for reading!


	4. Someone Just Like You

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is property of JK Rowling!  I'm sure everybody is aware of this by now.  : )  

Spoilers: All FIVE books!  I'm not sure if anything is given away in this chapter, but please do not read as a precaution!

The Secret Keeper

by phantasm

Chapter Four: Someone Just Like You

_"Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get, it's what you are expected to give -- which is everything"-- Anonymous_

***

"What exactly _is_ this?" Hermione asked, intrigued, as she jabbed the filled pastry puff with her fork prongs relentlessly. "A Hot Pocket?"  

What she _really_ wanted to do was to skewer out Malfoy's eyes with that same fork, and wave them around madly in the air… but then her food would most likely be taken away by angry House Elves… and she _was_ starving- so she would hold off. 

For the moment.  

Draco hoped she didn't notice as he wrinkled his nose in disgust.  A "hot pocket"?  What in the bloody hell was that?  His father had told him since he was a child that Muggles were vulgar and uncivilized ("much like House Elves," said Lucius Malfoy with a sneer), but even in his great understanding, heated fabric did not pique his cultured taste buds in the slightest.  

"Seafood Crustatta," he replied in the most amicable voice he could produce, even though he was still thoroughly disgusted from the thought of heated pockets.  

Hermione stared at him blankly.  Draco fought the desire to roll his eyes and scream _Duh!!!_ in a very uncivilized fashion.

"Well, you know… gulf shrimp, bay scallops, lobster cream sauce…" he followed, hoping to spark some recognition.  Mission Failed.

She gave the pastry another sharp poke, ignoring him completely.  

"Made by House Elves, I presume," she asked snottily, although it was intended as more of an accusation than a question.  

"No."

This piqued Hermione's interest.  With a house as large as the Manor, it would be nearly impossible- and very costly- to cook without House Elves.  

"You see…" Draco trailed, unable to find words to put this the nicest, "Kreacher has started some kind of… House Elf rebellion against you, and they've been having a penchant to poison the foods you are to eat.  We've had to hire a chef to accommodate for this… difficulty."

She would have cared about this Kreacher Rebellion (or whatever else he was saying), had she not placed the whole Hot Pocket (or whatever it was called) into her waiting, salivating mouth.  She gagged.

"Maybe… you should slow down a bit," he advised with a revolted, wide-eyed stare, as he handed her a glass of water.

She grabbed the cup from him angrily, gulping the cool water down eagerly, then shoved the still-half-full glass back into his hand.    

"_Maybe_, you should shut the hell up, Malfoy.  If you hadn't locked me in a cellar for… god knows how long…. I wouldn't be this damn hungry in the first place!"

Draco couldn't find an appropriate response for this outburst.  Frightened House Elves peeked around the doorframe to check on the commotion and gave her a dirty look.  

She angrily skewered another Crustatta with her fork and stuffed it down her throat, with a ferocity that made him think that she was imagining his own eyeballs as the puffed pastry.  He shuddered.

For thirty minutes, Hermione devoured each course delivered to her within seconds.

And afterwards, she felt thoroughly disgusted with herself.  Not because she was concerned with her figure (who the hell did _she_ have to impress?)- but more along the lines of the fact that she felt as if the majority of her lunch would soon find its way back to her plate.  

"I suppose I should show you your room, then, now that you've finished" stated Draco, as he rose from his seat.  

Hermione gave him a suspicious look.  Draco had been disgustingly cordial to her ever since he carried her out of that goddamned dungeon (although he put her there in the first place).  

"What, first you fattened me up, and now you're trying to konk me out so you can eat me?" she asked as venomously as she could, but as she said those words… that actually seemed a possibility.

What if fried Mudblood was a delicacy among the Death Eathers?  She was suddenly very afraid.

Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust.  He disliked touching Mudbloods, and the thought of eating Mudblood- was even more repulsive than hot pockets.

"Of course not."

"Then… why are you being so… not mean?"

"Er…"

"You didn't call me Mudblood once while we were eating," she reminded pointedly.  

Once again, he couldn't find an appropriate response.  He couldn't imagine she'd accept, "Voldemort wanted me to get close to you so you could tell me where your boyfriend is hiding."

"… Because I felt bad," he said lamely, unconvincing even to himself.  

She would have questioned his sudden show of morality if she had not wanted so desperately to take a nice, hot bath in her room.

Silence.

"Well, we should get going then," he added awkwardly, extending his hand to help her out of her seat.

She stared at his hand with a mixture of the deepest loathing and disgust, as if his skin had broken out into oozing boils.  Rejecting it completely, she painfully pushed herself out of her seat.  

And for this, Draco felt grateful.  Mudblood hands were probably filthy and dripping of Muggle oils.  

Being led from the kitchens through the vast corridors of the manor, this was the first time Hermione could appreciate the splendor that her spoiled nemesis was surrounded by every day.  Granted, she _had_ been trapped in a cellar (so even a shack would look splendid in comparison), and she _did_ expect the Malfoy home to be outrageously large- but his home was even more grandiose than imaginable.  Ostentatious- just as its inhabitants.

Bright tapestries papered the walls in flood of rich color- crimson, royal blue, gold and silver.  Each banister was a immaculately crafted in ornate swirls of gleaming gold, encrusted with a countless number of fiery rubies and opals.  Hallway after hallway, miles of pure marble surrounded her feet at all directions.

After climbing five flights glimmering granite steps, and passing through hundreds of endless corridors, Draco finally stopped at a polished gilded door to his right and gave the elaborate doorknob a slight twist. 

"Well, here you are," he said after a moment of Hermione's awe-struck silence.

"…enkyou," she mumbled hurriedly, slightly pink in the face after the trek through the manor.

"What?"

"Thank you," Hermione repeated quietly, half-hoping he wouldn't hear it, wondering why the hell she was thanking the person who had locked her in cellar with a groping dismembered hand.  But this room was certainly preferable to the cellar- which was why she very forcefully was refraining from saying what she _truly_ felt.

"There's a washroom connected to your room," he said, apparently not knowing what to do with her gratitude, either, except to ignore it completely.  "You might want to take a bath."

He was certainly correct.  Dried blood and dirt had caked onto her face like a horrifying mask, and her hair was matted down with oil and ridden with rat droppings and dust.  

"I _might_ want to take a bath," she sputtered suddenly, breaking the thin, temporary peace while shooting him down with an angry glare, "What do you mean by _that?_"

Her pacified state turned sour instantly.  Well, of course she wanted to take a bath.  But who was he to-

"Well… you have some dirt on your face and your hair-"

"_What_, am I not suitable enough for your prissy pureblood eyes to look at?"

"No, that's not what I-"

"-_When this is all your fault to begin with?"_

She huffily stepped through the doorway and gave the door an angry shove behind her.  It slammed an inch from his nose.  He could still feel the wind whip across his face.  

Slamming a door of _his_ home in _his _face?

He supposed that he couldn't go barging in there and jinxing her- that probably wouldn't make her fall desperately in love with him.  

But how _was_ he to go about this "wooing" business?  

**Impress with costly and exotic foods.  **

Which obviously did not work, because she could not tell the difference between a Seafood Crustatta and a "hot pocket."  

**Impress with Le Grande Tour of the impressive Malfoy Manor.**

She had not uttered a single word.  

**Impress with the best guest room.**

Obviously unimpressed.

Utterly lost, he decided that the best course of action to follow now would be to take advice from one of _them_, the other spectrum of the human species.  

But now the question was- Who was the girliest, most appropriate person to ask?

***

Blaise sunk into the smooth leather folds of her armchair, basking in the warm glow of the fire, feeling suddenly as if this could easily turn out to be the most important day of her life.  

Draco had wanted to have a _talk _in the living room.  

About what, she could only imagine.  But she was sure she had a good idea…

And so she sat, waiting, wearing an intricate (and very costly, she reminded herself with a smug grin) gown of crimson and gold, spun by ancient mermen in the deepest depths of Atlantis.  A dress reserved for only the most significant of days-  but, if this day was going as planned in her mind, it could turn out _quite_ unforgettable…

Finally, her prince had appeared, stepping through the arched doorway beams with his head held high, pale streaks of hair glittering across his forehead in the blazing firelight.  She greeted him with a dazzling, Blaise Zambini-patented smile.  

They exchanged formalities, which she thought was utterly unnecessary, seeing that she had shared his same bed (damn customs), and he swept over to take his seat across from her.  Settling himself into his armchair, Blaise couldn't help noticing the troubled expression that had settled over his features.  

'Probably nervous,' she mused.  'Stunned by my beauty, and all…'

Too soon to allow her to relish in the moment, he began to speak.   

"You know, Blaise, I know this is an awkward question to ask… and maybe I should have asked Pansy, but- ."

 "Oh, Draco," she cut in abruptly, in desperate attempts to keep Pansy's name out of the conversation, "You can ask me _anything_ you want."

'Especially a question along the lines of 'Will you marry me, Blaise Zambini',' she thought with a grin.  That was, entirely possible, in her opinion, he'd beaten around the bush long enough with her.  Of course, this question was only to be accompanied by a stunning, paper-weight sized ring (no less than 10 carats).    

(It was only natural, of course.  Narcissa's ring was large enough to legally be considered a weapon.)  

Blaise couldn't see a ring-sized box in his hands.  Perhaps it was hidden in his chair cushion?  

Or maybe, he'd planned to do some fancy "_Accio 10-carat Engagement Ring_" spell, and it'd come whizzing through the air?

Either way, Blaise would have been completely content.  

She could only _imagine_ the look on Pansy's face when she found out.  She suddenly felt giddy.  

"Well…" he began lamely, unable to find the right words.

"Well…?" she repeated, her excitement quickly becoming overwhelming.

"I was wondering… what exactly do girls exactly like in a guy?"

Blaise deadpanned.  What kind of question was _that?_  Certainly not the one she had been expecting…

But she still maintained her hope.  He was probably just getting around to the question, setting her up for a super spectacular whopper of a ring.  

"Personally, I really _really_ like diamonds," she said sweetly, trying to coax him to go ahead and do what she knew was inevitable.  

"Is that all?"

"Especially if they're over ten carats, princess cut, H clarity, from a well known dealer (like Tiffany and Co, for example) and-."  

"Anything else?"

"I guess… girls like handbags.  You know, Hermes, Burberry is superb-"

"Well, what about girls who _don't_ like material possessions?"

She honestly couldn't believe her ears at that point.  

"_All_ girls like material possessions," she said, cerise lips forming a perfect O, lined eyes unnaturally wide, looking utterly scandalized. "Or at least the _decent_ ones, do."    1

"What I meant was, what kind of _traits_ do you look for?"

"Traits?" she repeated blankly.

"Generosity, strength, chivalry… things like that."

"Oh.  Well… I guess I like… Pure-blooded, wealthy, amazing snogger… you know, someone _just like you_," she said with another dazzling smile.  

Draco sincerely hoped she didn't catch the aghast look that flickered over his face.

"Uh… thank you, Blaise."

This was just too much to take.  They had been talking for almost ten full minutes, and not even an 'I love you Blaise,' had wrestled itself out of his lips (but then again, now that she thought about it, when had he ever said that to her?).  Could it be possible that… He loved someone else…?

_'No_,' she answered her own question in her mind angrily, angry at Draco for not popping the question that should have rolled of his tongue _years_ ago, angry at her brain for producing such a stupid thought.  For who else was as wonderful, beautiful, clever-

Yes, she would restrain herself _for now_.  

"Any time," she responded, and with a strained, choking voice, almost as if on the verge of tears, added, "And… if you have _anything_ else to ask me, you know where my room is."

He didn't begin to comprehend what she meant by that, but thankfully, she pulled herself out of her chair and disappeared into the hallway, layers of silk bustling behind her in a long golden train. 

So, he didn't learn exactly how to go about wooing someone like Hermione in this most _enlightening _conversation with Blaise.

But he assured himself that from this point forward, he would limit his exposure with Blaise unless he _desperately_ needed bed company.  

***

**Authors note**:

A bit of nonsense to carry me over to the next chapter…

I took a teensy break from writing… and another huge thanks and a bear hug to my reviewers:

Flexi Lexi, arbitrary, Princess of Darkness, Pailay… thank you so much for reviewing the last chapter.  It always makes my day when I see I have reviews.  

Just some responses:

Flexi Lexi: I'll try to do more with Pansy.  Ah, I feel so guilty.  I swore to myself in the beginning that she wouldn't be a mindless bumbling idiot when I started writing… and I'm starting to turn her into one.  I APOLOGIZE!  : )  Your "oh Draco/Hermione, you rock my socks" did have me laughing out loud though.  That was an interesting way to get your point across… I might even have to use that in the story.  Hm…

arbitrary: "anyway, just wanted to let you know that there are people anxiously awaiting the next chapter" gah!  What lies!  But it made me feel super duper spectacular when you said that, so thanks anyway : )****

… ahh… I'll finish writing these later!  I'm too impatient to post!  

FINISHED: 7/23 


	5. The Alliance

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is property of JK Rowling!  I'm sure everybody is aware of this by now.  : )  

Spoilers/Warnings: All FIVE books!  I'm not sure if anything is given away in this chapter, but please do not read as a precaution!  AND there's some swearing, too.  : )

The Secret Keeper

by phantasm

Chapter Five: The Alliance

_"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned." __-William Congreve, "The Mourning Bride"_

***

Hermione gave the wall a frustrated, furious punch and instantly regretted it.  She recoiled her fist, clutching her knuckles that were now flushed with a blotchy crimson, gritting her teeth against the pain.  Having done that, Hermione couldn't quite understand why actors did this pointless, painful act in Muggle cinemas- she didn't feel a single bit better- but a whole lot worse, instead.     

She was angry, of course.  

When had she not been angry during her stay in this damnable manor, the sight of which had not quite yet ceased to disgust her?  Where were the dim ebony walls that oozed with flowing shadows, and a frigid draft whipping around her the way she had imagined in her dreams?  She would rather reel back in horrified disgust, surrounded by unmentionable dark items, than stand slack-jawed at its undeniable, overpowering magnificence- as she had been doing.     

So, yes, she was still angry at her two best friends (for not even a feather from either of their owls had been spotted)-  

But she was more angry at herself.  For eating _his _food.  For accepting a room in _his_ home.  For not being able to find any fault in _him_.    

She blindly felt along the sides of the door frame, running her fingers across the smooth sculpted gold in the darkness, searching for the light switch ('Damn wand was still probably on the floor at her house where I dropped it,' she grumbled).  Feeling a protrusion beneath her grimy fingernails, she gave it a small flick, and a shower of light immediately swept over the room.  

And the whole of her bitterness and anger she had been feeling seconds before was stripped away so that only the speech-stopping awe could remain once more.    

This room seemed the only escape from the shining gold and shadowy marble that swallowed the manor- it was filled with the brilliant sheen of pearl and the fire of a million sun-touched opals.  Her bed, it seemed, was made entirely of carved ice- until on closer inspection, under her examining hands, it was all crystal-cut glass.  But then again- so was everything else in the room- from the illuminated crystals dangling delicately from the ornate chandelier hanging over her head and the carved dresser top.  She was surrounded by the glow of pearl, the burning of jewels, and the clarity of glass.  

The bedroom itself was easily larger than any room in her own home (which was quite large to Muggle standards, though shamefully small when compared to the manor).  Three gilded doorways led out, one to the hallway, she already knew- but the others?

Crossing the carpet, which was as feathery soft beneath her roughened feet, she passed through the first connecting doorway and switched on the light.  It was the bathroom, as Draco had directed her before, another spectacle of pearl.  Catching sight of the enormous bath, she ripped off the filthy, dirt-ridden remains of her clothes that she had been wearing since her abduction, twisted on the scented water, and threw herself inside.

After soaking in the raspberry-scented, bubble-saturated water for a full hour, she emerged from the bathroom feeling squeakily clean and wrapped snugly inside a terry bathrobe.  And certainly in better spirits.  

Now the problem of finding something to wear.  She mumbled some obscenities as she made her way over to the wardrobe, hoping desperately that there would be something inside (she didn't quite enjoy the possibility of fitting back into her rags), when she heard a primal, pain-filled shriek from the hallway.

"_But you can't possibly- No you cant… Why… you…"_

And then a vicious crack.  Another shriek filled the air, and a ripping sound vibrated horrendously in her ears.

Rushing to the door, she flung it wide open expecting the worst- 

To reveal a scarlet-faced Blaise Zambini beside five, vicious slashes into the corridor's creamy wallpaper.  One look at her bleeding, razored red fingernails could explain why.

Malfoy stood calmly in front of her, arms crossed, almost as if he had expected this drama to occur.  

"Your belongings have been moved into your primary room on the second floor," he explained slowly, and tersely, as one would to a misbehaving child. "Miss Granger is to be staying in this room for the time being-"

"_Miss Granger_," she spat vehemently, "Since when have you called _Mudblood_ that?"    

"Blaise, you have several rooms to yourself in the manor," he began, ignoring her question.  "I'm sure you'll make do with one less-"

"But it's been _mine_ every visit for _years_!  And no _Mudblood_ will be dirtying _my_ sheets-"

"This is _my_ manor," he cut in suddenly, very coldly, dropping the calm that had just rested over his features.  "And unless you intend to return to your own very soon, I suggest you go to your room."

"Go… to… my… room…" she repeated, seething after a silent moment, through clenched teeth.  "What am I to you, a fucking child?"

The silence was the worst answer she could have received.

Wild-eyed, curls astray and crimson dripping off the tips of her torn fingernails, it seemed as if Blaise finally recognized Hermione's presence.  

Blaise's eyes turned slowly to meet hers, and the instant they met, Hermione felt the breath she had just taken in freeze painfully in her lungs.   

Blaise's face, once so enchantingly, so perfectly pale had swollen into a ruddy, intoxicated color.  Her face contorted hideously, dark eyes staring hatefully through narrowed lids, mouth twisted into a feral snarl.  Their eyes caught for only a second.  

She gave her a furious once-over, her eyes hatefully raking across Hermione's body.   

And with a deafening, reverberating _Crack_!she disapparated from sight, leaving no trace but the small droplets of blood that had collected by her slippered feet.  .

"She's been telling everyone who would listen since we were first years that a great, great, great grandmother of hers was a part-veela," Draco said suddenly, breaking through the awkward stillness.  "She finds that reason enough to throw a fit every time her demands aren't met."  

"You could have given me a different room," Hermione replied, still shaken.  

And after another pause, she could only bring herself to tentatively ask, "…Why this one?"  

She almost dreaded the answer.

"…Because it is the best," he replied simply, with no further explanation.

Hermione hated herself for blushing that moment.  But he didn't seem to notice.

Turning to reenter her room, she heard him distinctly call over her shoulder.

"You may want to put some clothes on, too."

Damn.  She supposed her bathrobe wasn't covering too much at the moment.  Rather than try to stutter a response in her embarrassment, she decided it would be best to just _walk away_ and salvage the last remaining bits of her dignity.  

She was grateful her back was turned so he couldn't see the burn intensifying in her cheeks.  

***

If Pansy could ask for any one thing in the universe at this precise moment, she knew exactly what she would request.  

…Well… _Draco_, of course.  

Scratch that.  

If Pansy could ask for any _two_ things in the universe, it would be: 1) Draco        2) A camera

In her life, she had never so much as seen a single hair hiding amongst the glossy tendrils of Blaise's magnificently groomed mane, heaven forbid _two_ hairs misplaced.  Now if only all the Slytherin dotes who decided to go with Blaise to the Yule Ball instead of her- well… if only they could see her now.  

"I think the only word to describe how you look right now is…" Pansy started smugly, dizzy with grasping her good luck  If she hadn't been walking down their hallway at the exact moment that Blaise came storming down the stairs- she may have missed this opportunity!

"…Completely hideous."

Blaise just snarled quite unbecomingly and continued to stalk angrily to her room.  But then again- this was just too good of an opportunity to let her get away.

"So where's the ring," Pansy questioned innocently, batting her eyelashes magnificently.  "You've been telling me about one since you went to go see him."

"Oh _shut up_, Pansy."

"So explain to me why you look so… ugly… When this should be the happiest day of your life?"

"I'm part-"

"Yes, yes, we _all_ know.  Part _veela_.  You must have told me a million times.  But what has Draco _done_ to make put you in this horrible mood?"  

Blaise stopped mid-stride, turned abruptly, and glowered.  Pansy shrieked with a terrible bout of laughter.  Blaise had to be the ugliest thing she'd ever had the misfortune to lay her eyes on.  Mustering all the goodness her heart possessed, she managed to keep the laugh she desperately wished to release to a minimal grin.  

"Do _you_ know who's staying in Draco's guest room?" Blaise hissed suddenly, not expecting an answer. 

"Well… _you,_" Pansy replied shortly, uneager to allow Blaise to exercise superiority once more.

"No, not me," Blaise responded impatiently.  And as a bitter, hushed afterthought, added, "Not anymore, that is."

"So, Draco's found someone new… As if you didn't expect that?"

Pansy was desensitized to letting these words roll off her lips, having scolded herself with the same question endlessly.  So easy to say those words- but when would it stop hurting to think about it?  But this would not spoil her good mood- not until she was locked in her room, letting tears roll down her cheeks in utter darkness.  

"You still didn't answer my question.  Do you know _who_?"

"Probably the fifth year Draco's been fucking-"

"Mudblood."

"Excuse me?" Pansy asked with a deadening thud in her chest cavity, not yet trusting her ears.  Her heart plastered itself against her rib cage in frantic palpitation.

"_The Mudblood_," Blaise repeated, in a harsh, strangled whisper.    

Pansy's smile vanished.  

And in that instant, an uneasy, untrusting alliance was silently formed against one.   

***

**Author's Note:**

Ahh… I need to work my way back to continuing the plot!  (I've been a very, very bad author.  Forgive me.) 

Thanks again to my reviewers!  I love you (even though you guys are _way_ too nice to me)!  Be mean!  

And these responses were made in order received: 

**Hea-Chan**: I pretty much do have the plot thought out.  It's probably not a very good plot- but I'll try to make it work.  Thanks for being so kind!

**dkg**: When is Hermione going to give into Draco?  I'm trying!  I really am trying to convince her to fall in love with him!

**Stephanie**: I love to think that my story's original, so thank you.  It gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling.  : )

**regina-terrae**: You're right, Draco's not too suave with the _decent_ females.  And Hermione is definitely not going to fall for it!  (Eh… Not yet, that is…)

**Croft**:  Ah, I hoped the checklist would break up the bore of my long-winded writing.  I'm happy you liked it!

arbitrary:  More lies from you again!  Why would you look forward to this admittedly crappy chapter?  But thanks for making me feel better.  : )

**Flexi Lexi**: Your review could be a chapter in itself.  It's huge!  Thanks for taking the time to leave me your comments every chapter.  No, Narcissa's not dead (Ack, I should have made this background stuff more clear.  Stupid me!).  She's off on the pursuit of our favorite Potty!   So, I attempted the detail of her room, but it's probably sub-par.  Wah.  I'll try harder.  If you _really_ hate it, I'll edit it and try again.  And I'll definitely try to work in some of your suggestions.  Thanks again!

**Princess of Darkness6**: Haha, that line was just a bit of randomness.  : )  Hopefully, it wasn't _too_ kooky. 

**Ardent Entity**: Thanks for liking my story  (and for reviewing it too)!  Always makes any author happy.  And I've been trying to update soon- I've just had mild writer's block.  

**Chick Vicious**: Well-written and an interesting plot?  I must say you're being awfully generous there.  (And it doesn't belong your favorites, dearie).  Thanks for reading and for your kindness, too!

**Pailay**: Thanks for another review.  I'm trying not to make them fall head over heels for each other… but I'm getting impatient.  : )  I need to start writing more to get the plot moving!


	6. In Control

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is property of JK Rowling!  I'm sure everybody is aware of this by now.  : )  

Spoilers: All FIVE books!  I'm not sure if anything is given away in this chapter, but please do not read as a precaution!

The Secret Keeper

by phantasm

Chapter 6: In Control 

The dreams were getting stronger now, and eerily frequent.  

So strong, that Draco would wake up at odd hours of the night, fingers clutching his sweat-matted hair, trying to physically tear the madness from his mind.  

Same dream- same lake, same woman.  

Same barrier.

'So this is how Potter must have felt,' he grumbled angrily, as he gulped down the last drops of water he had in his glass that rested on his bedside table.  

The Dark Mark suddenly burned on his flesh furiously, glowing an angry green, causing the glass to slip from between his sweaty fingers and crash onto the marble floor with a splintering crack.  He swore venomously, clutching at the shining mark with his hand, trying to numb the stinging pain out from his flesh.  

Voldemort's bloodless face appeared in his fireplace with a _Pop!_, green and red flames licking at his gaunt, bony cheekbones.  The awe-saturated fear he once felt for the Dark Lord had long since subsided- it had been too ritual, too frequent to perpetuate.  Seeing his pale face appear before him was almost a ho-hum, daily exercise, and the green and red flames served to remind him only of Christmas holiday.   

"Your progress is under surveillance, Draco," bellowed Voldemort from the confines of the illuminated fireplace.  Tendrils of fire streamed from his sickly green-tinged lips.  

"Of course, Master."

His intestines knotted uneasily.  His progress in this task of seducing a Mudblood in order to extract Potter's whereabouts- if extrapolated- was certainly futile.  

"There is no time to waste."

"I understand, Master."

"We need the Secret now."

***

At morning in her room, the sunlight shines through the lace-fringed curtains and illuminates the room.  White light beams upon the surfaces of pearl and sets fire to the facetted opal, and the shine of a million crimsons, lavenders, and periwinkles erupts around the room.    

This is what she rose to every morning, a spectacular light show that left her in soaring spirits- 

Until her mind began to register, and she remembered where she was once more.

Hermione untangled herself from the silken sheets, and forced herself to leave the solace of her canopied bed.  She washed up idly, the anger she had possessed for the past nights had simmered itself down to a helpless lull- for what _could_ she do to remove herself from his home?

She couldn't Disapparate without her wand.  She couldn't walk out through the doors unless she wanted to be fried by several hundred anti-Muggle/Muggle-born hexes (it was quite common practice to do hex exits against non-Wizards in pureblooded homes, according to the _History of Magic_.)  She was _not_ going to take her chances.    

Her wardrobe, she learned only a day before, was enchanted (as was every other object in the Manor) to provide any type of attire she could possibly require.  The one catch- the wardrobe had taken a preference to the former inhabitant's wishes and the clothing, whether for work or leisure, were remarkably, disgustingly _Blaise._  

She closed her eyes and pounded the image of _WORK_ into her brain, hoping to find a reasonable, comfortable pair of slacks and an oversized t-shirt.  Upon swinging open the wardrobe doors with a flourish, she found only a cliché French maid outfit: a tight black corset, a short, fluffy skirt, fishnet leggings, and an impossibly steep pair of stilettos.  

Flustered, she slammed the doors, closing off the hideously whorish sight.  Several more attempts with the word _WORK_ and she produced- in order- revealing scarlet lingerie, an antique kimono, a cracked shoehorn, and a half-eaten, stale pack of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.  Hermione figured that Blaise, having inherited the billions of galleons from her parents, never needed "work" clothes.  Therefore, the enchanted closet was apparently confused as to what exactly "work" was.   

Nibbling on a buttered popcorn bean, she concentrated on the word _SIMPLE _in hopes to find the least frilly, undecorated piece of clothing the baffled furniture could produce.  Upon opening the doors, she quickly realized that "simple" was also not in Blaise's limited vocabulary.  The wardrobe produced dress after dress, no slacks or casual pants in sight, each thickly ornamented with precious jewels and curtained with yards of French lace.  

She chose the simplest of the lot, but in no respects was it so by Hermione's standards.  Glimmering cerulean satin hung off her shoulders and cinched tightly at her waist, then billowed out to form a full, billowing skirt.  The fabric reflected the light infinitely, small sparkles glimmering off in the light, leaving her to feel only overdressed.  

And terribly (for lack of a better adjective) _Blaise_.  'The cost of the fabric alone could probably feed a thousand House Elves for a year,' she mused sullenly.  She made a mental not to take the dress along to sell… that was, if she ever escaped from the Manor alive.  

The door creaked almost inaudibly, and she peripherally noticed Draco enter the room.  She hoped the sour look that crawled itself upon her face wasn't as noticeable as she felt it was. 

Wait.

Forget her manners.  She hoped she was blasting that filthy scumbag with the dirtiest, sourest look she could possibly muster.    

"I was hoping you would like to join me for breakfast on the veranda," he stated, casting a strange glance at her uncharacteristic clothing.  She suddenly felt an irresistible smugness building up deep inside- that was the same gawk he had given her during the Yule Ball of their Fourth year- when her fellow classmates had finally began to realize that she, too, was not simply the bookworm she was made out to be.  

But then again, the reality check- this _was_ Muggle Hating Ferret Pureblood Scum.  

"Oh, you _hoped I would like to join you on the veranda_," Hermione repeated snottily, sour expression still resting in its rightful place, "now that I'm presentable?  And because I don't smell anymore?  

"I can't say you're all too presentable at the moment, either."

"_What_?"

Hermione could feel her face rapidly begin to glow red with rage.  Draco, however, remained as passive as before, unmoved.  

"Your dress is absolutely hideous."

"Oh," she replied lamely to his blunt remark, immediately disappointed, because on that account, she had to agree. 

She didn't like to agree with Malfoy.  It gave her a sickening, stomach-churning sensation.  

"It's not _you_ at all."

"And of course, Draco, you know me _so_ well."

"You just look like you're trying to be-"

"-Blaise," they finished simultaneously.  

She slapped a hand over her mouth as if she had said a particularly dirty word.  Agreeing with Draco on any matter was on dangerous grounds enough.  But to finish sentences together- was a death sentence.  

"And you'd probably never wear a dress like that," he continued, "because you'd rather spend the money on S.P.E.W, right?  It could feed a thousand House Elves-"

"That's exactly what I was just thinking."  

An awkward silence ensued.

"So," Draco cut in shakily, apparently just as disgusted as she, "_Would you_ care for breakfast?"

"Have you've forgotten that _I hate you?_"  

"Let me redeem myself, then."  

She shot him an withering glare.

"Redeem yourself," she mocked.  "You kidnapped me from my home, allowed your friends to use an Unforgivable Curse on me, and locked me in a cellar… all in the past _week_.  And I'm not even going to _start_ on all of the things you've done to me in the past six years-"

She had listed some good points, admittedly.  'Does someone _have_ to forgive you in order to fall in love with you?' he asked himself, perplexed.  'Or at least like you enough to tell you where your best friend was hiding?'

He knew that girls, being the selfish creatures that they were, would forget about all the warm, fuzzy, forgiveness crap for a while if you tailored to their interests (learned from his complimentary copy of Maxim, thank you very much).  

"Well, I _hoped_ you could tell me all about S.P.E.W over breakfast… but since you'd rather not talk to me…," he trailed off dramatically.

Somewhere mid-sentence, her vicious glare softened into a complacent, almost appreciative stare.  

And right then, he knew she was already baited into the beginning of the game.         

***

"And so really, the House Elf liberation movement was first actuated when Druthilda Nott choked on the peppered frog in 1607 and then cruelly impaled the House Elf that served it to her.  The other House Elves in the Nott household at the time held a small rebellion, refusing to do chores, tend to the house, etc… good for them… and well, they _were_ all punished heavily and buried alive for their disobedience… but never mind that.  Isn't it amazing what they did?"

Draco had stopped listening a long time ago, the last word he remembered hearing was something about his friend's great-ancestor and peppered frogs.  Peppered frogs.  The reminded him of the lingering craving for Chocolate Frogs that had been plaguing him since morning, and he let himself dreamily stare off the veranda and into the thick, vibrant garden.  __

"Well, isn't it?" Hermione asked again, a tinge of annoyance beginning to enter her speech.  Draco blinked out of his daze.  

"Of course it is," he answered too quickly.  She gave a defeated sigh accompanied by a knowing look.  

"You didn't _really_ want to know about S.P.E.W, did you?"  

"Well… no," he admitted hesitantly.  He forced himself to feed her a guilty look.

"It's okay.  Not many people _do_ want to know about it, anyway."

Hermione's gaze traveled away to the nature around them, and the conversation fell silent.

"So, what _did_ you want to know, then?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, why did you want to eat breakfast with me?"

"Is it wrong to simply just… want to?" he asked, for lack of anything better to say.  She didn't look too convinced.  

"Malfoy, you never _simply_ want to do anything.  You always have an ulterior motive.  Something your damn _father_ wants you to do.  Or Voldemort."

"I have a mind of my own," he said indignantly, yet not even managing to convince himself.  

So why _was_ he doing this? 

'Because Voldemort told me to,' Draco answered immediately to the question in his mind and regretted it.  Damn.  So maybe, he was mindlessly following Voldemort on _this_ task, but he definitely had thought for himself at least once in a while.

Like the time-

Wait… no.  Voldemort told him to do _that_, too.  

She slid the chair away from the table and rose, leaving Draco to his thoughts.  

"Wait, Hermione."  

She merely glanced at him.

"What I said before… in your room… about redeeming myself.  I meant it.  I'm going to try."

"I wonder what Voldemort has in mind, making you say that to a _Mudblood_," she replied coldly.  

And she escaped from his plan that easily, merely walking away and leaving him sitting, lamely, and alone.

Draco slunk into his chair and agitatedly allowed his face to fall into his hands.  

So this was going to be even harder than he thought.    

***

She cornered him in his room.  That was her strategy now, to corner him, then to attack, but most importantly- leave no room for escape.

And _of course_, look absolutely smashing all the while.     

She wasn't quite sure what he was doing, and she wasn't sure if she cared, either.  As long as he wasn't accompanied by another girl (particularly a certain _Mudblood_ girl), he could do whatever the hell he pleased.  

He sat at his wooden desk, resting a book on his palms, apparently unaware of her presence.  A single light shone above him, showering his body with a filmy, ethereal light, a ring of light circling his pale head like a glorified crown.  Or a halo.

No, she definitely preferred the crown.

She closed in on him as stealthily as she could (or as one could manage in skyscraping stilettos), all the while cursing her damned dressmaker for ornamenting her in so many layers of swishing fabrics.  When she reached him, she enveloped him in her arms.  

He stiffened perceptibly at her touch.   His eyes met hers, shocked gray boring into her blue.

She preferred the shocked expression, to the bored one that immediately followed.

"You caught me off guard, Blaise."

She captured his lips in a thousand burning kisses.

"I'm busy," he protested, waving his book in front of her face.  "I'm reading."

Blaise skimmed the title: "The House Elf Liberation Movement."  She cringed theatrically, grabbed the book from his hands, and threw it across the room.  __

"So I'm guessing you're… not… angry with me anymore?" he questioned, between gasps of air and in the moments he could escape her all-encompassing lips.  

"I could never stay mad at you because I lo-"

Draco didn't want to let her finish this thought.  He didn't want to hear it.  And the way to properly shut her up without releasing her inner-veela:

"Do you want to-"

"-Of course," she replied immediately, dragging him off his seat, and toward his bed, all the while ripping off her dress into tattered pieces of fine silk.  She was skilled at that, now, this multitasking.  They had, after all, done this so many times before.

He laid above her, kissing her dispassionately, routinely, feeding his animal lust.  He would feel properly disgusted afterward, for giving into this desire, for not holding back, for feeding her overbearing obsession for him.  But for now, he could only live in the moment.  

She brought his ear to her lips with her chilly hands.

"So, about you and the Mudblood-"

"We're nothing," he interrupted, feeling full well that she was most attractive when her lips were shut.  

"Then why is she here?"

If anything could ruin the limited sexual desire he felt for her at the moment, it would be any reference of this looming, unsuccessful task.  

He rolled over, away from her, thoroughly unsatisfied, self-disgust starting to worm it's way into his mind.  

"Why is she here,"  she questioned again, much more harshly.  The breathiness had evaporated from her speech, leaving her true, cold voice to ring through.

He gave up.  He closed his eyes, and wished she would Disapparate or simply melt away.  Damn witch.

"Voldemort," he answered quietly, defeated, hoping this was an appropriate response to quell her nagging questions.

"_What does he want with her_?"

"A secret."

"Then I'll be glad to Crucio-"

"It's not that simple."

And he found himself telling her everything, not knowing completely why, feeling completely miserable and alone, hoping that now that she would share the burden of seducing a girl that he absolutely despised.  And quite possibly, hated him even more in return.  

And after he was done with his lengthy lament-

-She smiled.  A hideous, self-assured, jaw-breakingly smug smile.  

"So _that's_ why," she exclaimed, relieved, more to herself than to Draco.  "_Not_ because she's better looking or smarter of better then me.  How silly of me to think so."

Oh, the psychological damage that she could ravage on the poor Mudblood.  

"I'll do _anything_ to help."

***

**arbitrary**: I can't thank you _enough _for plugging my story, and of course, because I am in love with _Temporary Insanity_ (which you'd better update soon, damnit), it wouldn't hurt to direct everyone to this address: .  Go READ!  NOW!

**Flexi Lexi**: I made sure to not have a white space area this time so I don't fool you this time.  But I did make this chapter a little longer!  Hm… I wonder how to integrate "You are too cool for school" into the story… I'll try.  : )

**Ennahar**:  I deserve more reviews?  Nah.  I don't even deserve the ones I've gotten so far, but _thanks!_

**liar**: I have taken your advice and gotten rid of the "I am new at fanfiction" off of my story.  I do agree that my first chapter was utter crap, though, and am happy that I am not the only one that thought that  : )  I revised it, and hopefully it's a teensy bit better?  I'll have to try again.  Now, all I need is a beta reader.  Any volunteers?  : )

**Pailay**: I'm happy you like the character development, but I'm afraid I'm making Pansy into too much of a whiny baby and Blaise into a two-dimensional sexpot.  Argh.  I should watch out for that more.  But thank you so much for keeping up with the story, and _never failing to review_.  : )

**Stephanie**: I thank you for your declaration.  : )  And I'll try very hard not to dissapoint you, but when I read over some of the previous chapters, I get really frustrated because I realize how much more revising I have to do.  And then I enter a mini writer's-block from the frustration  : )

**Chick Vicious**: Ahh!  I'm in favorites?  Don't waste your list space!  (Isn't there a limit?)

**I Give it all to Mr. Black**:  Gah, I'm trying hard to churn out these chapters, but these damn mental blocks.  ARGH!

**Narcissa Black**: Somehow, Blaise has turned into my favorite character (to write, at least), but I definitely will try to get the D/H action going on soon… I just don't want it to be too unnatural or unbelievable.   

**Sara**: Good to hear from you again, and I still want to thank you for my email!  I still have it saved in my inbox and I can't thank you enough for taking your time to write that.  

**Kou Shun'u**: I couldn't resist bringing Kreacher in the story… I loved him and hated him at the same time (but most people just told me they absolutely despised him- what did you think?).  

**baka neko**: I'm pretty sure I'll continue writing this story until the end… I get really sad when I read a fanfiction I particularly like only to find that the author discontinues it at a later chapter.  : (

See Flexi Lexi?  NO BLANK SPACE!  : )

Finished: 8/20/2003


	7. A Gryffindor's Responsibilities

Chapter Seven: A Gryffindor's Responsibilities 

"Without change, something sleeps inside us, and seldom awakens. The sleeper must awaken."—Frank Herbert

Hermione was almost sure that Blaise had been following her.

Well, not _almost_.  She was _definitely_ sure.

At odd hours, as Hermione mindlessly trudged through the Manor to her room, face buried into a text, she would suddenly crash into Blaise, who would _coincidentally_ be standing in her way.  Had this been an isolated incident, Hermione would have considered this an acceptable intrusion and continued on her way.  

But when this was occurring at steadily increasing intervals, beginning modestly at once a week to now nearing several times an hour, Hermione concluded that Blaise's vapid mind was busy conjuring something very sinister.  

So when she entered her room after a numbingly large lunch, and with her body under the sluggish spell of food coma, ready to collapse into it's afternoon nap, she was more than slightly irked to find Blaise skittering around her room, rummaging through her drawers and belongings.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione snapped, sadistically pleased when shock passed over Blaise's powdered face.

"Nothing." Blaise squeaked immediately, the guilty look quickly replaced with an innocent stare.  She nervously slammed the drawer she had recently been pillaging.  

"Well, then, get the hell out of my room," Hermione replied irritably, already careening towards the quiet solace for her escape into semi-consciousness.

An escape that would have been completely possible, had Blaise not just fallen to the floor, trembling and screaming into an advanced stage of hysteria.  She buried herself in her over-extravagant flood of clothing, immediately tangle into a flurry of delicate daffodil silk.  

She wailed unstoppably, one of the worst sounds that Hermione had the misfortune to hear (Veela squeals were listed amongst the most unpleasant sounds, according to _The History of Magical Creatures._).  Blaise looked up at Hermione miserably, and she barely managed not to grimace when she saw the trails of mascara that bled down Blaise's melting face.  

"Why does it have to be _you_," she screeched, delicate fists pounding against her carpet in rage, liberating clouds of dust to spiral away in the air.

Hermione felt awkward, nervously fidgeting in place for a moment, helplessly wondering if it would still be possible to ignore the crying girl altogether and go to bed, anyway.  It seemed plausible, but only until Blaise left out another deafening squeal.  

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid don't know what you're talking about, but I'm sure Draco would love to hear about it," Hermione attempted, taking Blaise by the arm in attempts to usher her out of the room.  

"Oh, I've been hearing quite enough from _Draco_, all right." the girl snapped bitterly as she twisted out of Hermione's grip.  She blew her nose grotesquely on an monogrammed silk handkerchief.  "He won't stop talking these days, _actually_," she added, matter-of-fact.  She collapsed into a fresh wave of tears.  

"That's not a good thing?  I thought you were interested in-"

Blaise snorted scornfully.  

"Yes, that's exactly the problem.  I _am_ interested in him."

"And that's a problem… How?"  Hermione felt dreadfully as if she were the Love Advice columnist in a teenage Muggle magazine.  

"Well, _Miss Granger_, it'd obviously be a problem if he won't stop talking about _another girl_, isn't it?"

"But-"

"And it'd _certainly _be a problem if this _other girl_ were a Mudblood, wouldn't it?"

Hermione was just about to coo out a generic "Oh no, I'm sure he doesn't feel that way" and a "I'm sure he's interested in you, Blaise" accompanied by a simpering smile and a camaraderie-like, gag-inducing arm stroke.  

Until the _Mudblood_ part, of course.

"E… Excuse me?" she barely managed to sputter, feeling her eyes bulge nearly out of their sockets.

"Yes, yes, _I know.  _That's exactly how I reacted when he told me, too."  She trumpeted her nose loudly onto the sopping napkin and hung herself hopelessly across Hermione's bed frame.  

"Well- when you say _Mudblood_," Hermione began, still choosing to remain in the safety of disbelief, "you don't mean- well, you couldn't possibly mean-"

"You?  Well, _you _don't see any more of _your_ kind around here, do you?" she snapped irritably. 

Hermione deadpanned, and Blaise resumed her weeping.  

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" Blaise blew her nose loudly on the cloth "-It's just I'm so upset.  I didn't mean it like that.  My feelings- they're just so conflicted right now."

Blaise lifted a hand and rested the back of it against her forehead dramatically.

An apology, and Malfoy… interested?  She couldn't quite figure this out.  

Well, actually, Blaise spelled it out for her quite clearly.

But she didn't know quite what to make of it.  

There was a choking, terrible acerbic strangling she felt tugging at all of her insides.  Some cross-breed of anger and disbelief, mixed with confusion.  On the other hand, complete… neutrality, almost.  Where was the hate that she had reserved in her for the last six years?  She attempted to summon it, boiling it up from her deepest memories of his baritone shouts of "Mudblood" and the things he had done to Harry and Ron…

-Both of whom had completely disappeared off the radar and hadn't bothered to contact her or _save her from this hell_ as any good friends should have done.  Weeks ago.  

And all she could remember were his blinding robes carrying her out of her chamber, the Seafood Crustatta, the lunch on the veranda- 

Hermione felt positively scandalous, near entertaining thoughts of romance with a Malfoy, and doubting her friendships, but what else was she supposed to think?   

"I'm sure one of your _friends_ have contacted you by now," Blaise sniffled, terribly on cue.  "They'll take you away, won't they?"

"Of course they will," Hermione spat back fierclely, upset that even Blaise-who had hated Harry and Ron since they were first years- would expect such a noble deed from them.  One they hadn't accomplished.  

"And when they do come… what would that change?"

"I'll be back_ home_."

"And when you're home, then what will you do?"

"Go to Hogwarts." she responded snippily, quickly losing interest in this string of questions.  

"When it hasn't opened?"

Hermione choked on her breath.  Hogwarts still closed?  

"And what about Draco then?  What about him?"

"_Have him_," Hermione replied spitefully.  "He's all yours, you can have him."

A long silence.

"You're an incredible hypocrite."

"_Excuse me_?"  

"You, with all your lofty words on making _changes_- changes for the House Elves, changes in Pureblood-Muggleborn Wizard relations- that's all _crap_.  You _won't do anything about it_ except make those stupid S.P.E.W. badges and annoy everyone with your speeches.  And here's a perfect opportunity for you to actually _make_ a change-"

"What opportunity," Hermione replied immediately, voice on the verge of a scream, pale skin reddening indignantly, "_What_ _change_?"  

"Change _him_."

She could barely breathe.

"You can change him," Blaise repeated, eyes earnestly shining through a film of tears.  "The personal risk he's already taken- as a pureblood and a Malfoy- to admit his feelings for you shows that he's ready…"

Hermione numbly staggered over to her bed and fell over into it, trapping herself into a million folds of white cloth, insulating herself from Blaise's words.  

But they were already seared into her mind.

_Change him_.  

____

Blaise gently closed the gilded door behind her.

And finally exhaled the satisfied sigh that she held trapped for too long, while dabbing off the salty mixture of tears, caking powder, and dissolved mascara off that had been burning her delicate skin.  

Really- this was _too_ easy, this monstrous, most exhilarating task.   For there is no greater weakness than a Gryffindor's sense of responsibility to those around them, to spread their great nobility and grace like a beacon to warm the world-

And to _change _the world around them.  Change, the most overused, assumption-flooded two syllables in any vernacular, and in too many perfect romances- which are imaginary, of course.

Who ever said change was good?  

The world is not the snuggly place Granger imagined it to be.  

And Blaise was more than happy to teach her.  

___

Hm… I took a teensy break from writing, and I can already turned my writing has turned to crap.  Ugh.  This chapter disgusts me.  Next chapter is more Hermione/Draco, I promise!

And thanks again, to my lovely, lovely readers and reviewers, and arbitrary, who keeps encouraging this piece of crap.  But… I can't thank you enough for the support.  : )


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